


nous avons choisi notre destin

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is a choice; Draco made his long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nous avons choisi notre destin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HarryDracoMpreg's 2015 round.

  
**Title:** nous avons choisi notre destin  
**Author:** [](http://crazyparakiss.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**crazyparakiss**](http://crazyparakiss.dreamwidth.org/)  
**Prompt:** [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=this_bloody_cat)[**this_bloody_cat**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=this_bloody_cat) Prompt # 11: Harry wants a family but can't be bothered with dating. Draco would really rather stay out of Azkaban.  
**Word Count:** 11.571  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Contains (Highlight to view):** * Dubious consent so if that bothers you avoid. Hinted infidelity (that’s not actually infidelity for those that freak about that, it’s a misunderstanding). Totally has a happy ending.*  
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
**Epilogue compliant?:** No.  
**Who is pregnant?:** Draco.  
**Notes:** ~  
**Summary:** Love is a choice; Draco made his long ago.  
  
  
  
I.  
  
The antechamber was frigid, dank, and smelled of mould; reminding Draco of the dungeons in Malfoy Manor, and it sent an unpleasant chill through him. Long fingers pressed into the wall, feeling the sheen of moisture from the humidity that seemed constant in London, while Draco released a low breath. His heartbeat was erratic when the door opened. Bright lime robes whipped around two Healers, and behind them was a flash of the crimson that was only found wrapped around the shoulders of Aurors. When Draco lifted his eyes, he saw beyond the Healers to the face of the Auror that came to oversee his examination: Potter.  
  
Of course, because his humiliation was not complete without Potter there to bear witness.  
  
They weren’t gentle, and the one called Epperson glared when Draco asked if they could turn; he didn’t want an audience while he got starkers. Potter’s near imperceptible nod was what made them turn to give him the illusion of privacy. Draco stripped down; he pulled on the thin sheet they provided before he climbed upon a cold stone table that had been erected for this occasion.  
  
Epperson was the Healer in charge, at least he gave that impression while he manhandled Draco with rough, cold hands. Potter stood near the doorway, expression disinterested while the woman, Marron, took hold of Draco’s left arm. Her blue eyes were looking for the scar--the one his father had on his arm, along with Crabbe’s father and Goyle’s. It was an ugly twist of angry pink and red flesh, raised and obvious--but Draco was free of the Mark, and the scar it left after Voldemort’s demise. He wanted to laugh when Marron released a surprised noise; foolish woman actually thought The Dark Lord would _reward_ Draco with his highest honour for Lucius’s failure. What a joke--only those who’d proven their worth, and were granted entry to the inner circle were Marked. Draco was never regarded as a prize to The Dark Lord. All he’d ever been was an expendable pawn.  
  
Potter, when Draco chanced a glance at him, looked unsurprised by the “discovery” that Draco was free of the blemish that remained in the Mark’s wake. Though surprise stole across Potter’s face when Epperson parted Draco’s thighs and murmured, with condescension, “Oh, what have we here?”  
  
Draco’s face was flaming when Potter stepped closer, a storm of anger swirling in his vivid green eyes. “What do you think you’re doing,” Potter demanded of the Healer in a stony voice.  
  
“I’ve found something interesting to add to his medical record,” Epperson answered in a snotty tone. “Something that was not previously known.” Potter didn’t appear moved, nor did he ask for further explanation, but Epperson continued regardless, “It appears young Malfoy was built with the ability to ensure his family name does not die.”  
  
For a moment Potter wavered, but his chivalry kicked in and he refrained from asking. Despite Potter’s disinterest, Epperson knocked away the sheet to reveal Draco’s body. He knew the moment Potter saw his secret; behind horrendous lenses Potter’s eyes grew wide, and Draco instinctively tried to close his legs. Epperson’s cold hand was hard on his thigh, holding Draco open while his other hand moved to expose Draco to Potter’s gaze.  
  
The moment he felt cool air reach that damp place just behind his ballsack, Potter’s grip dug into Epperson’s shoulder and Draco could see his face go white with fury. “Remove your hand, now.”  
  
“I was just-,” Epperson began, but Potter cut him off with a glare.  
  
“I am in charge of the prisoner, and I told you to remove your hand.”  
  
Draco breathed easier when the thin sheet covered him once more.  
  
II.  
  
The entire walk into the Wizengamot’s chamber Draco’s legs shook. Potter’s silence beside him did not comfort in the slightest.  
  
Cold shackles tied him to the chair, and Draco winced when an Auror took his wand, to hold until after the trial or to be snapped if he was found guilty. Potter moved to sit beside the council; his crimson cloak and cream uniform held Draco’s gaze as the old witches and wizards whispered amongst themselves while glancing down at where Draco was bound.  
  
“Draco Malfoy, you stand before this council accused of aiding The Dark Lord Voldemort in his quest to purge our world of Muggleborns and their supporters; have you anything to say in your defense?” An old witch spoke down at him, her tone laced with a sneer that was evident to all.  
  
Suddenly, Draco felt his throat closing around his words while tears burned hot in his eyes. His fate would be sealed with his own silence, and no matter how hard he tried he was unable to make his throat work. The minutes seemed to drag for eternities while he willed the words out; only nothing came.  
  
His panic rose when Draco thought they were ready to deliver their sentence for they tittered amongst themselves; their eyes full of his decided guilt.  
  
Potter’s voice bounced through the circular room, loud in the relative silence. “I will defend him.”  
  
The Chief Warlock gave Potter an assessing look before nodding for Potter to continue. Which he did, and what came out of his mouth shocked even Draco, but he kept his face a blank mask as Potter said, “He’s my lover.” When the murmurs went through the room Potter waited for them to die down before he continued, “During sixth year Draco, along with Snape, Dumbledore, and myself joined forces to concoct the elaborate plan that would bring about Lord Voldemort’s fall. We fell in love during that time, and I have kept my distance because it was never revealed that Draco was a traitor in Voldemort’s camp. Because even after the war his life would be in danger. Once Lucius was sentenced we felt it would finally be safe to reveal what Draco is to me.”  
  
“Your lover,” one of the council wizards said with obvious skepticism, and Potter met his gaze easily.  
  
“More than that; he will soon be my husband. As soon as his trial is finished I plan to make him mine, in name and by law.” Potter’s voice didn’t waver, and he remained calm even as he announced his claim on Draco’s future.  
  
Draco nearly choked on his tongue.  
  
The council talked amongst themselves for what seemed like hours, but was in fact long minutes--they deliberated there, before Draco, and he felt his face go clammy with fear. Until, at long last, the Chief Warlock stood to deliver the sentence they agreed upon.  
  
“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you’ve been judged by this council for crimes committed during The Dark Lord Voldemort’s reign of terror. We have heard Harry Potter’s testimony and have weighed it along with the evidence of your physical examination.” She paused for dramatic effect, making Draco writhe in his seat, before she finally said, “This council of distinguished Wizards find you, not guilty--however, we suggest that in the future you keep vigilant of whom you choose to spend your time with.”  
  
He nodded, too numb to speak, and nearly cried with joy when an Auror released his bindings.  
  
It was Potter who had hold of Draco’s wand. Yet, instead of giving it to him immediately Potter jerked his head in an obvious invitation for Draco to follow. Draco went without protest; he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Potter’s lies would come free of charge.  
  
III.  
  
The Apparation point Potter gave to Draco was written on a slip of parchment, and when Draco glanced down at the scrawl there upon he found a familiar address.  
  
_Number Twelve Grimmauld Place_  
  
For a brief moment he debated taking the Floo back to Malfoy Manor, but followed Potter obediently when he remembered Potter still held his wand hostage. Despite the fact he didn’t need his wand for most spell work; Draco didn’t like the vulnerable feeling that settled in his bones. He could always purchase a new wand at Ollivanders, but he’d grown rather fond of his hawthorn wand and all the horrors it shared with him during the war. He closed his eyes, concentrating harder than he would’ve had to with his wand, and a moment later he Apparated.  
  
Potter stood waiting for Draco on the front stoop, his strong arms crossed while he leaned casually against one of four stone pillars. When Draco was near him Potter waved his hand, in an almost bored fashion, and the ornate black door swung inward. A long hallway stretched before him as he stepped inside, and Draco was surprised to see that the wallpaper was new but remained true to the original character of the house. The carpets were plush and grey, muting his steps when he walked into the home.  
  
Potter came in at his heel, closing the door behind them while Draco looked at the restored iron bannister in awe. The last time he’d laid eyes upon the Black Family’s ancestral home he had been around nine or ten; when his mother’s great-uncle, Marius Black, wanted to sell the property. His father hadn’t been interested. Draco distinctly remembered him curling his lip as soon as they’d arrived via Floo, and he could recall the way his father had dismissed Marius--as if the man were nothing more than shit on Lucius’s boot. Mother had been interested, but they’d discovered a legal roadblock to purchasing the Black Family home--the property was Sirius’s until his time of death, and they could only petition for it if Sirius did not name an heir.  
  
The war put the property in the far recesses of Draco’s mind until that very moment. He touched the railing with a sad little smile hiding at the corners of his mouth as he looked up the centre of the many flights of stairs. Potter now owned the last of Draco’s mother’s line, and something in Draco told him Potter would soon own the last of Draco’s father’s as well.  
  
He was pulled from his morose ponderings by Potter’s voice from the front drawing room to Draco’s immediate left. “Kreacher, would you prepare tea for my guest and I?”  
  
A crack echoed in the large room when a hideous house-elf appeared, in a rather fine looking dishtowel, and bowed his old head to Potter. “Of course, Master Harry, it would be an honour for Kreacher to serve Master and his guest.”  
  
The horrid beast was gone with another loud sound, and Draco took a seat when Potter gestured to the small sofa. It was stiff and uncomfortable, as were all decorative seats worth having, but Draco feigned disinterest for the expensive piece. Really, who knew Potter would grow up to have taste?  
  
“Is this where you demand a ransom from me, Potter?” He tried to appear nonchalant, but Potter was not fooled. In fact, he met Draco’s gaze with a cool look of his own. When it grew uncomfortable, Draco broke first which drew a small smile across Potter’s face and he seethed in his seat.  
  
Before he could demand to know why he’d been pulled away from his freedom, to the newly renovated Black home, the house-elf, Kreacher, appeared with a tray of sandwiches and a steaming pot of tea. The china Draco immediately recognized. His mother had a similar set they used at Christmas when her mother, his grandmother Druella, Portkeyed in from Italy. It was a pattern designed for the Black Family alone, and Draco didn’t doubt that there were extensive amounts of it in the kitchen as he lifted his tea cup to take a small sip.  
  
While Draco was picking up a sandwich, Potter spoke, “Does it work?”  
  
Sandwich paused right before his mouth, Draco drew it away and quirked an eyebrow, “Does _what_ work?”  
  
“Don’t be daft, Malfoy, you know what I’m talking about.” Potter didn’t look to be in a playful mood. Draco sat his food aside so he could smooth out the non-existent wrinkles in his robes.  
  
“My... _girl_ part, Potter?” He didn’t answer, the hard stare Potter gave Draco was answer enough. With a huff he crossed his arms, self conscious, and didn’t look at Potter when he mumbled, “Yes, it does.”  
  
“How do you know,” Potter’s eyes were intrusive when Draco chanced a glance at him, and he chewed the inside of his cheek while he thought over telling Potter about his privates.  
  
“At birth all Malfoys are tested for their ability to, _you know_ ,” Draco made a vague hand gesture before he added, “for both parts.” He could feel his hair blushing; Draco’d never before been so embarrassed.  
  
“Has anyone used it?” Potter was oddly inquisitive, and Draco didn’t find it appropriate, but answered despite his discomfort.  
  
“A pureblood born with my _unique_ set of organs waits until marriage to partake in sexual activity, Potter. It keeps us from putting any bastards in unworthy wombs--or having an unworthy bastard put into us.”  
  
Potter appeared amused, “So you’re a virgin?”  
  
Enraged Draco snapped, “We can’t all be slags like your ginger bint, Potter.”  
  
Instead of rising to the fight, Potter waved Draco’s words off with a small smile. After a brief consideration, he said, “I have a proposition for you, Malfoy.”  
  
“What’s it going to cost me?” Draco said with a wary glance.  
  
“Nothing, but if you refuse I’m afraid it will cost you your freedom and I hear Azkaban isn’t so kind to pretty things like you.”  
  
Draco focused on the walls of the room--walls dominated by the long lineage of the Blacks and he prayed to his ancestors to give him strength.  
  
IV.  
  
In keeping with the lie Potter crafted for the court; Potter told Weasel, Lil’ Miss Muddy, and the rest of the gingers that he was sorry for his deception regarding his _love affair_ with Draco. Honestly, Draco was surprised with how accepting they were; especially the ginger bint. She just punched Potter in the arm and told him she was glad he was finally happy, and mentioned that she had wondered why he’d been so down the past few months. She assumed it was because of Draco’s trial. Potter let her believe what she wanted, and didn’t tell her the truth about his desire to be a father. Draco didn’t imagine that would go over well; they were just nineteen years of age--most people would tell Potter he was out of his ruddy mind if they knew he only wanted to marry Draco to fill him with Potter spawn.  
  
They held the ceremony in the yard of Grimmauld Place; the gardens were in full bloom, Mother had enough white silk covered seats to seat all of Hogwarts and then some. A giant banquet was scheduled to be held within the long fairy lit pavillion near a large pond on the west side of the property. Draco was rather impressed with the size of this place; the way his father had often spoke made the Black Family seem as if they lacked refinement. A glance at any of the property told Draco that his father was wrong; as Lucius had been about numerous things before.  
  
Draco stood beside Potter in an exquisite white robe, with intricate gold thread that created ivy-like designs around the collar. Potter was dressed in a similar fashion. Draco would venture as far as to say he was handsome, regal even, if he cared, but Draco didn’t. This was just business, even if it was overly elaborate and set up as if they were madly in love. They had to sell their lie to the papers.  
  
Within the past fortnight following his trial the papers had been splashed with images of them. Headlines such as: _Harry Potter Confesses to Loving a Malfoy!_ , _Potter’s Declaration: A Love Wrapped in War_. The last one had been particularly funny to Draco; _Witch Weekly_ had always been a rag full of dramatic flare. They had what appeared to be a photograph of him and Potter where they looked moderately happy, and by that Draco meant they weren’t actively going for each other's throats. The less than stellar image of them was surrounded by twinkling hearts--a Rita Skeeter piece, no doubt. His mother found it rather distasteful, but at the time Draco needed the laugh.  
  
He still needed the laugh Draco realized when he locked eyes with Potter near the podium. The officiate, the actual Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, smiled wide at them both as he directed them to clasp hands.  
  
Potter was near clinical with his vows. Verdant eyes glinted in the afternoon light that shone above while he recited, “I will honour you, until my last breath, and even after that.” They had “written” their own vows. Which had basically been Draco and Potter seated in the large kitchen, bickering over what sounded “passionate and in love” but also not corny as hell. Draco tried not to burst out laughing while he watched Potter promise him the world. “Through sickness, through poverty,” he did make a face at that, but Potter didn’t waver, “Through all your complaining,” a tittering of laughter rippled across the lawn at that, “I will love you, but more than that I will continue to choose you. You, Draco Malfoy, are my past, my present and my future.”  
  
Originally, Draco had no intention of crying. However, when it was his turn to begin he began fogging up, and his words cracked as they left his throat. “I promise myself to you. Until my last breath, my life is yours. I ask only that you love me and cherish me as I promise to cherish you. You are my choice, Harry Potter. Through evil, through war, through death, and through all your foolishness,” another small ripple of laughter ran through their guests. “You will always be my choice, as you were in my past, as you are in my present, and as you will continue to be in my future.”  
  
Kingsley tied their hands together with a thin wisp of silver magic, and wearing a proud smile told them they could now share their first kiss as married men. Draco tried not to act surprised when Potter reached for him, and tried not to be stiff when Potter pulled Draco’s mouth to his own. It was a dry kiss, at first, the soft press of Potter’s lips were warm and Draco gasped when Potter’s tongue ran along the seam of Draco’s lips. Potter took it as an invitation to ravage Draco, and he melted in Potter’s hold. The crowd’s cheering was a fog of white noise while Potter gave Draco the snog of his life.  
  
When they pulled apart, at long last, Draco stood in a flushed daze. Someone cat-called at them, causing Draco’s face to flame. Potter, however, beamed as he pulled Draco closer to his side.  
  
Draco was good at pretending; Potter mentioned later, with a whisper against Draco’s ear, as they mingled with the guests. He held Potter’s hand, laced their fingers, leaned into the solid warmth of Potter’s side, and chuckled in a flirtatious manner when Potter spoke to him.  
  
He was polite, talked to the Weasels as if they were people worth knowing, and managed to not call Granger Mudblood. All in all, Draco would count the day as a success.  
  
V.  
  
After the ceremony Draco was tired. He was exhausted from the strain of being _nice_. It was an overrated quality, and he wanted nothing more than to be done with all the business of being polite to half-bloods and _Weasleys_.  
  
Behind him the door closed with a soft snick, and Draco turned to find Potter walking toward the tall chest of drawers, in their now shared bedroom, where he began removing his cufflinks. The outer cloak came from around Potter’s shoulders, and Potter draped it over the expensive wingback in the corner. He kept his back to Draco, appeared bored--nonchalant even--but Draco’s pulse was going out of control beneath his skin. He felt almost dizzy when he watched as Potter began to remove his dress shirt. Beneath was golden skin that was wrapped over the bulk of muscle Potter’d built, from the past year or so that Draco hadn’t seen him.  
  
Lost in his thoughts, Draco was startled when Potter’s warm hand settled, solid and heavy, on Draco’s shoulder. He trembled and Potter noticed. His eyes were almost gentle as they gazed upon Draco, and his smile was kind rather than condescending when Potter whispered, “I will be careful with you.”  
  
Then Potter’s hand pushed Draco’s outer cloak off of his shoulders; it fell to the floor in a heap of white before Potter pulled at Draco’s robes, up until the hem was in both of Potter’s hands so he could pull the robes over Draco’s head. He was starkers beneath, and Draco flushed as Potter’s gaze traveled the planes of Draco’s skin.  
  
“Get on the bed,” Potter whispered with a husky tone. Draco moved to comply with trembling legs.  
  
Potter’s palm was a light touch against the smooth skin of Draco’s thigh, and he murmured encouragements Draco hardly heard as he tickled light touches over Draco’s hipbone. Draco lost time as warm calloused palms explored him, followed by kisses so gentle he could scarcely believe they were given by Potter.  
  
“Relax,” Potter breathed against his mouth, and Draco could taste the hint of the red velvet cake they’d eaten at their reception. It was slightly calming to find his favourite flavour on Potter’s tongue. “Relax for me, Draco,” Potter whispered, his eyes glazed as they stared down into Draco’s and he wondered, briefly how many others got to see Potter’s eyes unobstructed by his horrid glasses. He must’ve said that aloud for Potter replied with a soft smile, “None of them matter now...” Potter ran a hand down Draco’s side, “Relax for me.” He wanted to tell Potter he _was_ relaxed, and was about to tell him that sex wasn’t nearly as painful as all the girls made it out to seem. However, the uncomfortable stretch of Potter’s cock killed the words in Draco’s throat.  
  
“Shhh,” Potter whispered against his sweat damp temple, “You’re wet, but tighter than I’m used to--haven’t you ever played with yourself?”  
  
Hissing up at Potter through clenched teeth, Draco said, “Of course I fucking have, just not _there_ , I didn’t much feel like playing with my cunt, Potter!”  
  
He was about to yell more, angry obscene things, but Potter’s firm hold around Draco’s cock caused him to shudder anew. It had gone semi-hard at the painful intrusion, but was quickly becoming interested as Potter stroked him up and down with slow, sure movements. “Tell me if you like it, Draco.”  
  
Swallowing around his words, Draco remained silent out of stubborn pride. Potter chuckled, leaning back to stare down at Draco. His cock was still an unpleasant burn at Draco’s opening, but the sure strokes of his calloused palm caused Draco to slowly forget about the stretch behind his balls.  
  
When Draco’s breaths were ragged, with little gasps escaping him in frequent measures, Potter slowly started to rock within him. His thrusts shallow and gentle; rhythmic in a way that reminded Draco of the sea as it rocked into the shore before it drew slowly back.  
  
He felt Potter deeper, and would wince on occasion; his breath catching in his throat, and Potter’s voice was there to draw him away from the discomfort of it, “Breathe, Draco, breathe for me.” Draco wanted to laugh when he felt Potter’s soft kisses against his neck, but he cried instead. This was not how his first time was supposed to go; Draco never signed up to be lured in with the false promises of Potter’s gentleness. Potter, who at that moment, brushed away the tears that trailed over Draco’s cheeks. His expression was soft as he looked upon Draco, wiping away more tears Potter whispered, “I know it’s uncomfortable, we can stop if you need.”  
  
A surprised laugh left Draco, and he shook his head, “How are you even Potter?”  
  
Potter looked amused, but didn’t respond. When Draco felt him beginning to pull out, he grabbed onto Potter’s sharp hip bones, holding him in place, “Don’t stop.”  
  
There was hesitation on Potter’s face, but Draco bucked up, pulling Potter deeper within him and even as he hissed at the intrusion of Potter’s cock Draco whispered, “Come now, Potter, consummate with me.”  
  
VI.  
  
Potter was only gentle that first night. His kisses, his whispers, his touches--and he’d loved Draco thoroughly through until dawn. Potter had rocked into him until that hidden place grew less resistant, and began to find enjoyment in the intrusion.  
  
Potter was all brutal passion in the days following. As Draco imagined he would be; his kisses were more bite, full of a demand to conquer. They left bright red claims in Draco’s white skin, and when Potter was away at work Draco found himself before the mirror, poking the tips of his long fingers into the bruises.  
  
Now large hands clamped around Draco’s wrists. Holding his arms back while Draco was bent over the arm of the expensive sofa, in the receiving room, as Potter mounted him from the back. Taking Draco like a bitch in heat, and he was loathe to admit he enjoyed every harsh moment of it.  
  
The obscenities Potter husked against the exposed skin of Draco’s neck, as he bent over to leave more marks in Draco’s skin, ignited Draco’s desire. “I imagined you like this,” Potter whispered, teeth leaving a brand on Draco’s shoulder blade. “I imagined fucking you over my desk while the secretary came in--would you be embarrassed if she saw you like this?”  
  
Draco groaned, unable to speak when Potter fucked him deep, “You enjoy being mine, don’t you, Draco?”  
  
He agreed easily, too desperate for Potter’s hand on his cock to try and deny Potter’s words.  
  
“Mine,” Potter whispered against Draco’s hair as he came, and he growled it again, later, when he had Draco riding him in his lap. His kiss full of fight as he ravaged Draco’s mouth, “Mine.”  
  
Sated, Draco flopped against Potter as he mused, “You’re rather possessive, aren’t you?”  
  
A dark chuckle left Potter, “You’ve no idea.”  
  
VII.  
  
He didn’t fall pregnant for months.  
  
Draco discovered a few weeks before Christmas, with the help of a nauseating potion, but hadn’t yet decided how to approach Potter with the joyous news. To be absolutely honest Draco didn’t want to tell him until he was showing, because he was afraid his nightly excursions with Potter would end.  
  
He wasn’t ready to admit to Potter that he enjoyed the glide of Potter’s thick cock within him. Draco didn’t want to tell Potter that when he woke wanting Potter he’d slip into the shower and finger himself off while Potter got ready for work just down the hall.  
  
However, when Mother found out about his condition she decided they would tell Potter during Christmas.  
  
Which was how Draco wound up sitting in silence across from Potter when Potter opened the gift from Draco and his mother. There wasn’t any shift in Potter’s expression when he lifted the soft blanket from the box. It was dove grey with pale blue ribbon at the edges, and Draco watched as Potter’s dark fingers curled into the soft fabric.  
  
“You’re sure,” he asked, eyes still staring at the blanket.  
  
“I am,” Draco responded, and frowned when Potter grimaced.  
  
Potter threw himself out of his wingback chair, marched to the bar, and poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. Draco chanced a glance at his mother but she was avoiding his eye and he wondered what in the hell was happening.  
  
When he escorted her to the Floo, under an hour later, and said he thought Potter would be happy Mother scoffed. “He’s nineteen, Draco, he’s not looking to be a father. You should’ve been more careful.”  
  
He didn’t disagree with his mother, but he knew that Potter wanted a child. Potter had come to Draco to give him one because no one else would. Potter had said he didn’t want some fame hungry slag to mother his Potter spawn; all he wanted was to use Draco like a baby oven.  
  
VIII.  
  
“I thought you’d be happy,” Draco said when the silence grew too loud between them. Potter sat, nursing his third whiskey, and shot Draco a look.  
  
Tersely he said, “I am.”  
  
“You have a funny way of showing it, Potter,” Draco snipped in return.  
  
“Funny how you say that like you know me,” Potter spat, and Draco was inexplicably hurt by Potter’s words.  
  
He would never admit to crying after Potter left the room. Draco was above crying over filthy half-bloods who happened to fuck him against every surface of this blasted house.  
  
IX.  
  
Pregnancy was hard. Draco was tired most days, cranky always, and lonely at night when Potter stayed late at the Ministry--rounding up dark wizards who paled in comparison to the one that lived in Draco’s childhood home for months. Still, Draco worried when Potter was gone while London was blanketed in night. Bad things lived in the day, but worse things festered in the darkness.  
  
He spent long nights, in the drawing room, peering at the wall of his ancestors. Long fingers, made golden in the light flickering from the flames of the gas lamps, brushed over the raised names and ran along the intricate, twisting branches that led from one name to the next. Rigel Black’s name resided at the top of the tree that encompassed this large room, _February 4th 1201-December 23rd 1307_ was written in raised gold beneath the elegant scrawl of Rigel’s name. And just above the first named Black was the Black Family’s coat of arms. _Toujours Pur. Always Pure._  
  
Draco’s hands moved from the rough textures his family’s names created in the plaster, and went to the burgeoning curve of his stomach. As he gazed upon the wall he felt a chill settle within his bones. This child he carried was _not_ pure; it would be a lie if Draco added this child to the wall--as he so desperately wanted. This child was _his_ regardless of Potter’s muddied lineage, and _his_ child deserved a spot on the tree. _Any tree._  
  
His ancestors could torment him in Hell, Draco reasoned as he lifted his polished wand. Draco’s magic connected with the magics embedded into the structure of the wall, and met no rejection there when Draco whispered the incantation to add Potter’s name beside his own.  
  
In less than three minutes they were linked, for all future generations to see, and he felt only marginally guilty when he saw the line that formed automatically beneath their union.  
  
For now that connection read: Baby Potter-2000.  
  
In the hall he heard the chimes from the grandfather clock-- chiming three times, and Draco sighed as he made his way out of the drawing room. Potter wasn’t yet home, and Draco knew, from past experiences, that if Potter wasn’t home by three in the morning then he wasn’t coming back at all.  
  
Kreacher had his duvet turned down; when Draco slipped beneath the sheets he found the bed was warm. With an appreciative sigh Draco settled back against his pillows. Sleep found him sooner than he anticipated.  
  
That night he dreamed of FiendFyre, of the large dragon made of flame that chased them through the Room of Requirement. Potter was warm in the circle of his arms, and Draco recalled the strong scent of Potter’s soap that mingled with his sweat along with the burning scent of the fire.  
  
His dream later warped into the monstrous image of Greyback standing over a heavily swollen Draco with his claws and fangs extended. His voice was a nightmarish growl from where he boomed above Draco’s prone body, “The child is mine!”  
  
Draco woke with sweat soaking his sheets, and his breathing was laboured--loud in the stillness of his and Potter’s bedroom. A flick of his wand and light floated around him, blinding white globes that chased away the remains of his nightmare. He knew the images meant nothing, but Greyback and the Fyre were scars, from the war, that Draco would carry forever.  
  
Not for the first time, Draco missed the comfort of Potter’s presence. The dreams never came when Potter was home.  
  
X.  
  
Draco missed sex.  
  
Which was rather humorous since he’d never had sex before Potter, but now, after the hot glide of Potter against him Draco wanted nothing more than to feel Potter again. He woke aching for Potter, and the desire grew in intensity all day--until Potter came home after work, on the days he managed to come back from the Ministry, and it would become worse.  
  
Potter would walk around shirtless after his showers and Draco would stare, blatantly, watching as water ran along the firm lines of Potter’s muscles. Before Potter Draco wasn’t much interested in blokes. He’d found some men objectively attractive, but they didn’t ignite fire in his veins the way Potter did.  
  
Potter aroused in him something Draco’d never pursued, but now he wanted. He was hungry for Potter’s rough hands in his hair, his sharp, blunted teeth in Draco’s skin, and his hot cock splitting him.  
  
The desire grew to the point where one day, when Draco was at his eighth month of pregnancy, he accosted Potter when he returned home.  
  
“Fuck me, Potter,” Draco hissed, his hands wrapping in the soft fabric of Potter’s Auror uniform.  
  
Potter looked at him as if he were deranged and demanded, “What the hell, Malfoy?”  
  
He didn’t care if he came off as desperate, “I need you in me, _now_.”  
  
Potter didn’t take long to do as Draco requested. He wrapped a strong hand in Draco’s hair, hauling him close. Ravaging his mouth and pressing him against a wall; Draco moaned into it, and gripped at broad shoulders while Potter divested him of his clothes.  
  
When Draco was bare before him, Potter opened the front of his trousers and pulled Draco’s legs around his waist. Potter was graceful in a way Draco would’ve never predicted, and it surprised him that the strong man in front of him had once been the scrawny, underfed brat he met in Madam Malkin’s.  
  
Potter’s first thrust in had Draco groaning at the burn of the stretch. He hissed and bit at Potter’s lip when Potter kissed him, hard and desperate.  
  
“Harder,” he groaned.  
  
“Draco,” Potter whispered as he fucked Draco against the wall that held the long, distinguished line of Draco’s ancestors. “Fuck,” he groaned against Draco’s neck, “Fuck, you feel so good.”  
  
XI.  
  
Draco was less lonely once they started fucking again, but it didn’t save him from the doubt he suffered when he looked at himself in the long mirror. Some days he wondered if his freedom was worth the terms he agreed to; there had been a slight chance the Wizengamot would’ve found him not guilty. When he ran a hand over the hard curve of Potter’s child Draco realised he would never know.  
  
Kreacher brought him breakfast in bed every morning, and by the afternoon his mother would Floo in for tea. Some days they would go to Diagon to shop, or grab lunch, and other days they would linger around the garden while Mother brushed her fingers through his hair and spoke of the wonderful life Draco had. A life free of the cloud of darkness his father left over them.  
  
It was awful when she told him she was proud. Draco had to choke back his tears while he forced a smile.  
  
XII.  
  
Potter’s child came at the height of summer, and Draco hated the unbearable heat that pressed down upon him while he screamed through his labours. The Healers that Potter summoned to the house were gentle and set cooling charms over him, but they didn’t soothe Draco as well as he would’ve liked.  
  
Hours after he’d begun Draco had shouted himself raw. He was terrified when they began lifting him into a pushing position.  
  
“Potter,” he called, frantically, “Where’s Potter?”  
  
One of the Healers, Rose he’d heard her colleague call her, smoothed a kind hand over his sweaty brow. “He’s in the drawing room with your mother; they are waiting, and will come as soon as the baby is born.”  
  
“Potter,” Draco shouted; again and again until it started coming out as a desperate cry.  
  
He was in a blinding haze of pain when Potter’s familiar scent and warmth brushed against him. Draco slowly opened his eyes, and there Potter was--handsome and reassuring as he watched Draco with an almost fond expression.  
  
“You need to push, Draco,” Potter whispered, his breath was hot against Draco’s forehead, but he didn’t complain. Rather, Draco enjoyed his presence.  
  
He’d never recall pushing, not really, but Draco would never forget the first cry his daughter released.  
  
It was beautiful and reached deep within Draco, catching hold of his soul; embedding the sound within him. He loved her from that first scream.  
  
Draco loved her more when he saw her angry red face--covered in a film of blood and vernix.  
  
“Alcyone,” Draco whispered against her forehead, “Alcyone, my beautiful daughter.”  
  
XIII.  
  
The birth of Potter’s coveted child didn’t slow Potter down in the slightest. He still spent long nights at the office, hunting down more wizards on his personal quest to rid the world of their evil.  
  
Draco sat most evening meals with Alcyone, in her early days she slept in a small rocking seat while he took dinner, but when she’d reached about six months she ate a mushed version of whatever Draco was having.  
  
He watched her now as she smeared mash into her hair, large, toothy smile on her face while she babbled gibberish at Draco.  
  
“Silly,” he simpered at her, gently brushing the mess away with a damp cloth. Kreacher brought them more rolls, something Alcyone loved and she squealed with delight when she saw the little beast.  
  
“Join us, Kreacher,” Draco said when the old house-elf looked as if he would bow out of the room. He was lonely, and even this beast was better than the quiet of this ghostly home.  
  
Alcyone smiled at Kreacher, and he indulged her when she reached for his ear, pulling on it. Kreacher’s smile was happy, an expression Draco had never seen before on Kreacher, and there was a reminiscing sort of gleam shining in the house-elf’s dark eyes.  
  
Draco’s expression was sad while he watched them interact; he wondered how Potter could live with himself, knowing he would miss these moments. Alcyone grew daily, and Potter hadn’t seen much of her in the past few months. If Potter wasn’t careful he was going to blink and miss her life.  
  
“Master Draco,” Kreacher spoke, drawing Draco from his train of thought, “If it pleases you, Kreacher will make Master a pot of tea.”  
  
“Thank you, Kreacher, I would appreciate that greatly.”  
  
XIV.  
  
Alcyone’s first birthday was held on the grounds just as their wedding had been and was no less lavish. His mother saw to that, and Potter had let her have whatever she wanted. Draco was too tired to fight her.  
  
Fairies were acting out _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. Teddy, Alcyone, and the eldest Weasley boy’s spawn all watched as the glittering creatures flitted around.  
  
Potter’s arm went around his waist while he spoke with Weasel and Granger. “Can’t believe she’s already a year, Harry,” Weasel said, his own arm wrapped around Granger’s soft shoulders. Draco wanted to gag.  
  
“It went by fast,” Potter agreed, before he accepted a bottle of butterbeer off of a floating tray. “I blinked and she was walking.”  
  
Draco snorted, “If you hadn’t spent so many nights at the Ministry then you could’ve watched her grow.”  
  
The look Potter gave him was brief, but full of irritation. “Someone had to round up the rest of Voldemort’s followers.”  
  
“Good luck explaining that to your daughter when she’s grown-- _sorry I missed your life, Alcyone, I was busy rounding up bad wizards who could easily be handled by other Aurors._ ” He jerked out of Potter’s grasp, and ignored the look Granger shot Draco’s husband. Draco didn’t have the time nor the will to worry about why Granger was giving Potter disappointed glances. He’d rather try to enjoy the time he had with his daughter than try and map the politics of Potter’s private world.  
  
A conversation with Auntie Andromeda proved to be a wonderful distraction for Draco. After her he busied himself with the cake, then the presents, and every horrid detail of this party. He managed to avoid all contact with Potter. If anyone noticed they didn’t mention a word of Draco’s behaviour.  
  
XV.  
  
“You should get out of the house once in awhile--Lord knows Harry deserves to see you looking your best rather than slumming about the house in those awful Muggle rags.” Mother gave Draco’s faded Muggle shirt a pointed look while Alcyone ran around the yard, chasing after garden gnomes with the white Crup Potter bought Mother for her last birthday.  
  
“I’ve been too busy raising my child to worry about how P-Harry sees me, Mother,” Draco still managed to falter over Potter’s given name when talking to others. If his mother noticed his slight slip she was keeping it to herself.  
“He’s going to wind up sleeping with some tart at the Ministry if you keep up this indifference, Draco, when’s the last time you properly washed your face and righted your clothes before he gets in?”  
  
“Never,” Draco admitted; uncaring that she was horrified by that news.  
  
“You are going to dinner together,” she commanded and Draco gave her a wry smile.  
  
“Are we now?”  
  
“Alcyone is near three now, Draco, you owe it to yourself to get out of the house--go to a gallery, eat at that new shop in Diagon Alley, go spend the night naked with your husband for all I care, but for God’s sake, child, show him some interest.” She had that look, the one that said she expected him to do as she commanded.  
  
He glowered at her, “Are you quite finished?”  
  
“No, but I’ll leave it for now.” Mother lifted her tea cup to her mouth and took a delicate sip before she directed her attention to Alcyone playing in the yard. “She looks so much like you,” Mother whispered in a pleased way and Draco shook his head.  
  
“She’s all Potter, that child. Her eyes aren’t near as bright, but she’s got his colouring. Too bad,” he sighed, wistful, “I’d always hoped to have blond children.”  
  
“Alcyone might be Potter in her colour, but she is all you with her elegant angles and smiles.”  
  
He didn’t disagree; Draco was enjoying the nostalgic smile that crept across Mother’s face too much to chase it away. Briefly, he wondered if that was how he would be with Alcyone, in the far future, when she was a mother and he a grandparent.  
  
XVI.  
  
Ultimately, the date was Mother’s idea. Draco just happened to be the one to suggest it to Potter.  
  
The Ministry was hosting a formal charity ball for the orphans of war and Potter, as per usual, was strong armed into attending. In the past when Draco had watched him get ready for such events; Potter would wear a stoic face or the occasional grimace while he pulled on his dress robes.  
  
Now, however, Potter looked intrigued while Draco smoothed the expensive suit Potter wore beneath an exquisite outer cloak. When he deemed Potter presentable Draco moved to adjust his own outfit, using the long mirror in their room as he smoothed out invisible wrinkles.  
  
“You never ask to join me,” Potter said when they were both ready, after Draco had charged Kreacher with the task of taking Alcyone to Mother’s.  
  
“You’ve never asked me to come, and I got tired of waiting.” That statement was only half true. Draco could’ve gone his whole life without wanting to join Potter in his heroly duties, but he’d grown tired of his mother’s constant badgering.  
  
Potter held out his arm, and Draco tucked his own around Potter’s before Potter Apparated them to a large hotel that had been recently constructed in Diagon. The Ministry was holding the function in a large ballroom that was dripping with crystal; from the chandeliers, to the sconces, and even the dishware was bloody crystal. Draco found it all to be a bit tacky, but wisely kept his mouth shut when the hotel owner introduced himself to them. Beaming with joy when the man was introduced to Potter.  
  
Of course Potter didn’t like to dance so they spent most of the evening engaged in frivolous conversation Draco only half paid attention to. Politics had always been dreadfully dull to Draco. He didn’t like having to create beneficial friendships, nor did he have the desire or energy to insert himself into every branch of government he could find. That was all his father, and Draco had been perfectly content to ride the coattails of his father’s power and success. Draco was, and still is to some degree, a spoilt child.  
  
The familiar face of Blaise Zabini became a welcome distraction for Draco when the conversations around him grew even more boring. Drifting into the realm of Ministry regulations over things Draco had no interest in, like blasted Muggle autos.  
  
“Draco Malfoy, or is it Potter now?” Blaise spoke with a rakish grin as he joined them at their table.  
  
“It’s Potter now, but I will permit you to refer to me as Draco--I haven’t quite got used to the name Potter being my own.” Draco replied with an easy smile before he lifted his glass of champagne to his lips.  
  
“You look terribly bored,” Blaise observed, ever blunt and unapologetic. “I know these sort of discussions are important for a man in your husband’s position, and so I only wanted to come extend an offer for a dance--that is if your husband has no issue with my offer?” Blaise poised the last bit of his question at Potter, and after a brief moment of deliberation Potter agreed with a short nod.  
  
Hours later he was still dancing with Blaise, laughing as he hadn’t in years, and felt winded when the night finally came to a close.  
  
“Potter’s stared at you all night, Draco,” Blaise said with a fond smile, “I’m glad he loves you; at first I was skeptical.”  
  
XVII.  
  
Draco’s face was pressed into the texture of his family tree as soon as they stepped out of the Floo. Potter’s mouth was hot against his neck, “Did you enjoy yourself, Draco?”  
  
“It’s been a long time since I’ve gone dancing,” he replied, breathless.  
  
“Zabini certainly looked to be enjoying himself--hands all over you.” Draco snorted as Potter pushed the clothes off Draco’s body.  
  
All conversation ceased once Potter had him exposed. Draco trembled while Potter’s tongue explored him, invaded him, conquered him--his voice came out a whining keen and he didn’t have any embarrassment left to care.  
  
Long fingers yanked at Potter’s hair when Potter put his mouth around Draco’s cock. Despite the fact this wasn’t the first time, Draco released a shocked gasp. He was always surprised when Potter willingly gave him pleasure. Potter groaned, as if Draco tasted divine, and palmed his own cock through his trousers.  
  
“Potter,” Draco murmured in a pleading manner, “Potter, come fuck me.”  
  
Verdant eyes stared up at him while Potter’s skilled tongue continued to tease Draco, and after agonizing minutes Potter pulled away to stand. He opened his own trousers, and allowed them to fall to the floor while he ripped away his shirt. Draco didn’t think to chastise Potter for ruining excellent clothing. Not when Potter was on him, all hot skin, muscles taut, and ready to fuck Draco through the wall.  
  
“Think of me when you come,” Potter commanded, hand a hard press against Draco’s slim torso.  
  
“Who else would I think of,” Draco wondered aloud as he reached for Potter’s thick cock, to help guide him in. “Now get in me, Potter. Ruin me for all others again.”  
  
Potter did. He fucked Draco until the only thought in his mind was Potter. His smell, his taste, his feel, the colour of his skin in gaslight, the way his eyes sparkled with dark delight as Draco screamed his name, and every other nuance Draco only noticed during these moments. All because he was full of Potter.  
  
He hadn’t lied; Potter ruined him.  
  
XVIII.  
  
When Alcyone was six Potter came home with a promotion. He’d been named Head of the Auror Department, and as such he was relieved of the grueling field work. They were holding a function to celebrate his new position, and the papers were having a field day with the speculation of how long it would be before Potter was named Minister of Magic.  
  
“I’ll return home at five from now on,” Potter said when Draco asked after his new position.  
  
Draco looked over at Potter, from where he was sitting on the floor beside where Alcyone was playing with her little broom. Potter was seated, in a stiff chair, with the evening edition of the _Prophet_ , but he wasn’t reading his paper. Rather he was watching Draco, his eyes searching but for what Draco was not certain. They remained staring at one another until, at long last, Draco glanced away. Alcyone caught his attention with her small play Snitch. She had her hands clasped around it and was smiling in a manner that strongly remind Draco of Potter.  
  
XIX.  
  
True to his word Potter developed a stable routine. He woke at six in the morning, was ready and fed by six-forty-five, and was gone through the Floo shortly before seven. Then he would return at five on the dot, or would send an owl with a brief note if he was held up in a meeting. Even when those rare meetings happened Potter was always home by five-thirty, and Draco felt strange with this new development.  
  
Dinner was held at six every evening, and Potter would carry Alcyone into the dining room while she told him all about her day. She was delighted with his constant presence and Draco envied how easily she loved Potter.  
  
For the past six years of her life Draco had been working for her love, but Alcyone gave it to Potter freely. As if by just existing he was worthy, and Draco hated him for it.  
  
XX.  
  
They grew distant, physically, for the next few years. Draco didn’t miss Potter as he had in the past when Potter’s body was suddenly denying him friction. Now, their distance was Draco’s doing. Potter’s touch on his body was an unwelcome crawl that he wanted to scrub away, and he would yank out of Potter’s hold at every opportunity.  
  
Eventually, Potter quit trying and Draco didn’t know if he was grateful or disappointed.  
  
When the paper arrived, one October morning, Draco frowned at the headline: _Potter Caught with Secretary_.  
  
The picture was convincing enough to twist Draco’s gut, and he was surprised when he found that he was hurt.  
  
Hurt enough to cry.  
  
By the time Potter came home, late with no note, Draco hid his hurt beneath a calm expression. He sat Potter’s plate of cold mash and lamb in front of him before he stomped out of the room with no words exchanged between them.  
  
XXI.  
  
They never brought Potter’s _affair_ into their discussions. Draco never demanded Potter explain himself, and Potter never offered up an excuse. Their conversations were stagnant, and the only subject they bothered to speak of any longer was their daughter.  
  
One night, after Potter had slinked off to bed, Draco went to the Floo to make a call.  
  
His Mother looked lovely; even at the late hour with a frown of concern on her face.  
  
“What’s the matter, Draco?” She tied her robe closed as she stepped nearer to her hearth.  
  
“I think I’m going to leave him,” he said, surprising even himself. All he’d intended was to complain, get some of the weight of anger off of his chest.  
  
“Why?” Draco gave her a look and she laughed, “You can’t believe that story the paper ran, darling. Have you seen the way he looks at you? That girl obviously forced herself on Harry.”  
  
“He’s not denied what he’s done, Mother.” Draco was angry that she’d defend Potter. Defend him with a flippant wave of her hand and a condescending tone directed at Draco--the child she bore from her womb, the one she should choose above all others, especially Potter.  
  
She looked irritated, “Because he knows it’s a load of crap, as well should you.”  
  
“Still,” Draco said, ignoring her displeasure with him, “Alcyone will be of school age soon--I can leave him then.”  
  
Mother didn’t say anything else, and he decided to end the call. He hated feeling guilty for this, especially when Potter forced his decision.  
  
XXII.  
  
Potter found Draco in the drawing room, some nights after the call with Draco’s mother, as he had so many times before, and Draco rolled his eyes when Potter approached.  
  
A warm hand touched his cheek and Draco jerked away from the touch, “Don’t you dare touch me with your filthy hands.”  
  
Suddenly, he was sad, enraged, and Potter was there to witness his feelings.  
  
“I didn’t sleep with that tart,” Potter said, voice hard, “But I wish I had; you’ve grown cold and I want to know why.”  
  
Draco tried to shove past him, but Potter wouldn’t let him. Potter was there, pressing Draco into the hard surface of the wall; breathing heavily against Draco’s parted lips. “Tell me,” Potter commanded and Draco glared in response.  
  
“Why am I even here,” he shouted when Potter didn’t look ready to lessen his grip, “I gave you your baby, Potter. I gave you what you wanted; you never said you wanted me, too.”  
  
The kiss was not unexpected; sharp with teeth and wet with Potter’s seeking tongue. Tired of the game, Draco let Potter win this war.  
  
When Potter pulled away, with kiss swollen lips and bright eyes, he whispered, “You’re not very smart, are you?”

 

XXIII.  
  
Potter pressed into Draco, and his fury was notable in the way he gripped Draco’s hips--hard enough to bruise. His eyes, unfocused without his glasses, watched the place where he was buried within Draco. Potter’s lip was caught between his teeth and Draco felt a shiver of delight run through him when Potter groaned.  
  
“You’re beautiful,” Potter whispered, reverent when he finally slowed his brutal thrusts to a gentle roll of his hips.  
  
That caught Draco’s attention and he sat up with a guarded look. Potter ignored the expression while he tickled fingers down Draco’s side and softly massaged the bruises his strength left in Draco’s skin.  
  
His calloused palm took Draco’s cock in a loose hold, and Potter stroked him at an agonising pace while he continued his shallow thrusts.  
  
It was a torturous pleasure, and it took hours for Draco to come, but when he did the world whited out around him. He didn’t miss the pleased chuckle that escaped Potter’s throat.  
  
“Beautiful,” he whispered again, but Draco ignored the word in favour of falling into the arms of sleep.  
  
XXIV.  
  
Granger happened by before Easter, and Draco had Kreacher prepare tea after he let her in. The silence around them was awkward, and he was grateful when Kreacher appeared, distracting them. After their cups were poured, Draco gave Granger a questioning look.  
  
She didn’t seem interested in opening the floor for conversation, however, and that frustrated him to no end. Granger seemed intent on making Draco squirm until he caved and began the conversation for her, but unfortunately for her Draco wasn’t one to break so easily.  
  
He’d eaten two sandwiches and drank near three cups of tea when she crumbled first, “Tell me about what’s happening with Harry.”  
  
“What about him?” Draco replied coolly. He met her eye with a blank face and a cocked eyebrow.  
  
She was quiet for a long while, visibly weighing her words, before she spoke, “Was he having an affair?”  
  
“That’s been a few months past, Granger, surely you’ve found a new line of gossip to follow by now.” He was not impressed with her invasiveness into his private affairs.  
  
“It seems very unlike Harry to stray, so I wanted to come here and see if you’ve been treating him right. I wanted to see if there was something here that was forcing him to act out.” She was not intimidated by his cold glances or tones; had she been anyone else Draco would’ve been impressed.  
  
“Please,” Draco sneered, “Don’t come into my home, and play disgruntled mother-in-law at me, because I promise you, Granger, that is a battle you will lose. What happens in my home, between my husband and myself is no one’s business. Not the papers, not my mother’s, and certainly not the likes of you.” He stood, his robe pulling tight over the slight swell of his lower stomach, and Granger noticed.  
  
“Does Harry know you’re expecting?” To anyone else the small pouch would appear as a ridge of fat, but Draco forgot that Granger had spent a great amount of time watching him, along with Potter, during their years at school. His physique was slight, even after Alcyone, and the slightest change in his stomach gave away his condition. Honestly, Draco was surprised Potter had yet to notice the swell.  
  
“I think it’s time you go,” he sneered, angry she noticed, and left the room--leaving her nosiness to Kreacher.  
  
XXV.  
  
When Potter stepped through the Floo Draco could tell he had spoken to Granger. His eyes were instantly on Draco’s middle, assessing and cool when he stepped closer.  
  
“Were you going to tell me, or were you going to leave first?” There was an odd vulnerability in Potter’s stance.  
  
Draco frowned, “Do you want me to leave?”  
  
“Jesus, Draco,” Potter huffed, anger evident in his posture and the way he grit his jaw. “If I wanted you to leave I’d have booted you out years ago.” The fight went out of Potter as quickly as it’d come, and he sagged near where Draco sat. His strong right hand gripped one of the armrests and Draco saw the pale scar that stood out, stark against Potter’s tan skin: _I must not tell lies_.  
  
Draco didn’t respond to Potter’s words, he just sat there, staring at Potter’s scar while Potter cupped a gentle hand to Draco’s cheek.  
  
Alcyone came into the room, breaking the tension between them as she shouted, “Dad, guess what I did with Auntie Dromeda and Teddy today.”  
  
Potter pulled away from Draco, a warm smile on his face when he looked at their daughter. “What did you do today, sweetheart?”  
  
“We went to a Muggle cinema!” Her excitement radiated into the room.  
  
“Did you,” Potter sounded amused, charmed by Alcyone’s bright spirit. “What did you think?”  
  
“It was weird, like watching a flat pensive, but the story was quite neat.” She twirled her dark hair around her finger, and when she smiled again Draco saw what his mother saw in Alcyone--himself. She wasn’t all Potter after all.  
  
“Did Teddy manage to keep his shift under control?” Potter inquired.  
  
“Yes, Auntie was proud enough that she took us for ice cream after.” Alcyone had her chest puffed out, obviously proud of Teddy’s show of control.  
  
Potter gestured for Alcyone to follow him from the room; saying they should see if Kreacher needed help preparing dinner, but Draco knew Potter was giving him the privacy to breathe. Something he did the moment their voices faded down the hall.  
  
His long fingers went to the expensive fabric covering his abdomen. Beneath his skin he could detect the spark of magic, as he had with Alcyone and Draco’s mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. Perhaps they’d do better the second time round; he and Potter, they weren’t complete cock-ups with their parenting. After all, Alcyone was turning out alright.  
  
XXVI.  
  
Mother had them round for Easter, and after the boring noon Mass they returned to Malfoy Manor for the annual egg hunt. There were entirely too many chocolate eggs hidden in her home for just two children, but Teddy and Alcyone indulged Narcissa by excitedly running around to find them all.  
  
Draco remembered his mother had once wanted multiple children, but his father was content with one heir. He was too selfish to love more than one child. Draco knew Lucius loved him, in his own way, but Narcissa was the parent that wanted him, cherished him, and made sure he knew he was more than just a legacy.  
  
Draco stared at where Potter stood watching their daughter and Teddy run about. There was genuine delight and love that radiated from Potter for the children, and Draco felt a tug of affection. Potter didn’t look at Alcyone as a legacy to his name. He looked at her as a father should, with pride--even when she did nothing exceptional--and with joy--even on days when she drove them mental.  
  
Potter even looked at Teddy as one of his own; treated the poor orphan boy as one of theirs and he was more of a brother to Alcyone than distant cousin.  
  
XXVII.  
  
When they were preparing to leave Mother pulled Potter to the side, and Draco tried to hear what they were saying but she waved him on. Saying it was private.  
  
He frowned, not impressed with being excluded, but did as she instructed. Pressing his fingers into his aching lower back Draco watched as Alcyone Flooed home first, and then followed.  
  
The last thing he saw was Potter nodding at Mother, his face solemn.  
  
Kreacher had the bed warmed for him, and Draco groaned in appreciation as he climbed beneath the sheets.  
  
He was damn near to sleep when Potter came into the room, his body jostling the bed when he climbed in beside Draco.  
  
Potter’s body was a line of solid warmth against Draco’s back and he relaxed against him. Potter’s lips were dry against Draco’s temple. His words a warm puff of damp air that brushed along Draco’s brow.  
  
“I love you, you know.”  
  
Draco’s heart beat erratic in his chest, and his breath stopped in his throat. Potter settled in to sleep, as if he hadn’t just rocked the foundations of their relationship.  
  
For most of the night Draco laid awake, wondering what was supposed to happen now.  
  
XXVIII.  
  
They continued on as if what Potter said, some months prior, had not transpired. Potter did, however, start kissing him gently on the cheek, the neck, the wrist, or the forehead before he left for work each morning. Just as he kissed Draco each evening when he first returned.  
  
Draco never reciprocated, nor did he ever pull away. Mostly the displays left him feeling rather confused.  
  
Alcyone smiled brighter every time Potter showed affection for Draco, however, so it wasn’t all bad in the grand scheme of things. Draco could do this if Potter wanted. He could let Potter, of all people, _love_ him.  
  
What an odd thought indeed.  
  
After dinner one night, Potter put his ear to the large curve of Draco’s stomach and smiled, pleased. His voice was soft, whispering against the fabric of Draco’s grey robes, “Hey baby, it’s your daddy.” Draco made an unimpressed face, one Potter didn’t see, and it shifted to a grimace when the child started rolling around, across Draco’s innards.  
  
“I think he likes me,” Potter said, smug and proud.  
  
“You think everyone likes you,” Draco snorted, and then with a narrowed expression asked, “What makes you think your spawn is male?”  
  
“Magic,” Potter whispered with a mischievous grin and Draco shoved him, softly, in the face. Potter laughed in response.  
  
XXIX.  
  
Potter’s son was born one cool November morning, and Draco was no better at birth the second time round than he was the first. His screams echoed through their home, and his throat grew raw by the fifth hour of his labours.  
  
The only difference was Potter was there from the beginning until the end, some ten hours after the start.  
  
“You’re so beautiful, Draco,” he whispered against Draco’s sweat wet hair, over and over. “You’re doing wonderful, I promise it will be over soon.”  
  
Draco swore at him multiple times, but never lessened his hold on Potter’s hand when his contractions hit.  
  
Finally, the brat was free of Draco’s body and his wail filled the walls. As it had with Alcyone Draco felt that scream imbed itself in Draco’s soul, and he let out another sob while the Healer placed their child on Draco’s chest.  
  
“Regulus,” he said with a bright smile down at the pinched, wailing face of their son. “My sweet boy.”  
  
XXX.  
  
Regulus was on his toy broom, in the yard, bare feet dragging through the green blades of grass while Potter sat near by; watching him with a smile. Alcyone was away at school with Teddy, and at thirteen she was starting to hint at feelings for her cousin that Draco was not ready to deal with. He wanted to forget that she was four years away from adulthood. Draco wanted to see her, always, as that small child that filled his dark days with her laughter; laughter and smiles that were so very similar to the ones Regulus wore now.  
  
His face was bright as he giggled, like a mad little thing, at the golden Snitch Potter held in his grasp.  
  
Potter grinned at Regulus; releasing the Snitch that their son tried to catch, but it was still a slight bit too fast for young Regulus. One day, though, Draco knew he’d be as talented as Potter was on a broom.  
  
When Potter turned to look at Draco, Draco felt his breath catch. There was something in Potter’s face, something in his easy smile, that made Draco ache to be near him. It was a growing reaction to Potter; one he believed had always been there, but it needed nurturing to grow. Since that night Potter professed his love, Draco had been letting him worm his way in, little by little, and now he was full of Potter’s affection.  
  
So full of it, the affection for Potter had started to swell within him.  
  
“I love you,” Draco said, and when he realised what had left his mouth he hastily added, “I think. I mean...” Potter was smiling at him, warm and comforting, while Draco blushed. “I mean I think I could love you, Potter...Harry.”  
  
The profession wasn’t grand, nor was it worthy of being written in any book, to be remembered, but it was honest. Something Draco had not always strived to be. The entirety of their relationship was built on lies, but somewhere in all the chaos the lie became real. Out of choice, Draco believed, they made this real, and he found that was better than those prophetic loves that romance stories portrayed--tireless drivel that was writ in the stars.  
  
Draco chose his stars; grabbed hold of them and wrangled them into a constellation for himself and Potter.  
  
A short time after Draco’s bumbling confession, Regulus grew fussy and Potter gathered him into his arms, carrying their unruly child back into the house while Draco followed.  
  
He stopped when they ascended the stairs ahead of him, Draco’s eyes drawn to the large tree dominating the drawing room walls.  
  
Draco stepped near it, his eyes traveling through the names, down from Rigel to the latest: Regulus James Potter.  
  
He touched their names, Draco’s, Harry’s, Alcyone’s, Regulus’s, and traced them with loving fingertips.  
  
With a determined look Draco whispered a spell, and watched as the deep magic inlaid into the wall began to ripple and blacken as his mother’s history burned out of the plaster. Flakes of embers surrounded him, and dropped as ashen rain to the carpet, but Draco didn’t stop. He didn’t stop when Harry shouted at him, demanding to know what was going on--Draco didn’t stop until the last of the name Black was gone.  
  
“What the hell are you doing, Draco,” Harry demanded while the dust settled around them, but Draco ignored his question. Suddenly possessed with his task Draco pressed both his hands to the wall.  
  
From his fingertips lines of pale gold shot through the smooth plastered surface. The veins of magic snaked up to the top of the wall, bleeding out a soft dove grey that recoloured the surface, over the dark, sinister green that once dominated the room. When his lines of magic got to the top Draco watched as they seared the image of a hawthorn tree into the centre of the right wall, the one that a visitor first would see when they popped in from the Floo. At the roots of the tree a rippling banner appeared. At the top of the tree Harry’s name and Draco’s name burned into the plaster, large and curling; the children’s names followed shortly after.  
  
Within the banner the words **nous avons choisi notre destin** appeared, and at last Draco was done.  
  
Harry came to him, slow and wary, “What the hell?”  
  
“I changed the tree,” Draco replied.  
  
“I noticed,” Harry said, voice faint with a hysterical tinge of laughter to it, “But why?”  
  
“That line is dead, that history is gone; I wanted a history that suited what we are,” Draco’s voice was soft, his eyes downcast until Harry lifted his chin.  
  
“And what are we?” Harry asked as he stared into Draco’s eyes, searching.  
  
“Happy.” Harry released a surprised ‘oh’ at Draco’s reply and with a smile Draco added, “We chose to be happy together, yes? I want generations to look at this wall, centuries from now, and know that we were the beginning.” That was important to Draco; this small truth that lived between him and Harry.  
  
“Beginning of happiness?” Harry smiled.  
  
“The beginning of choice.” Draco pointed to the words, “We chose this fate, that’s what the words say, and I stand by them.”  
  
“I love you,” Harry whispered against Draco’s temple after he wrapped his arms about Draco’s waist. Pressing him against the wall Harry’d had him against so many times before, but it felt new as he did so in that moment. Felt right.  
  
“I choose you,” Draco whispered in return.

 

 

  
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